CHAPTER ONE

THE NORTHEASTERLY TRADE winds blow steadily and beautifully across the island of St. Mark’s, one of the gray-green knolls that breaks the shiny sea surface to form a fragmented barrier between the Atlantic Ocean and the Caribbean Sea, between the modernity of Florida and the antiquity of Venezuela. This chain of islands, known collectively as the West Indies, comprises such political extremes as Cuba and Haiti, such diverse cultures as the French of Guadeloupe, the Dutch of St. Eustatius, and the American of St. Thomas. British influence, too, has always been strong—and nowhere stronger than on St. Mark’s, the principal island and seat of government of the British Seaward Islands.

Government House stands white and foursquare among the coconut palms and tamarinds, with the Union Jack fluttering bravely from its flagpole. Expatriate ladies, arriving home after driving a sick goat in a bucking jeep over miles of boulder-strewn track to visit the vet, still find time to take tea in the garden under the shade of a mahogany tree. There is a big difference, however, between these expatriates and those of former colonial times. Apart from the Governor, who is the representative of the Crown and a career diplomat, none of them ever refers to England as “home”—which is hardly surprising, since a great many of them are Americans. To all of them, irrespective of national origin, the islands are home.

The single greatest asset of the islands is their climate. Year-round sunshine and beaches of white coral sand bring in the Sybarites; the never-failing trade winds bring in the yachtsmen. Of the latter, the most intrepid sail across the Atlantic from chilly, winterbound Europe, or down the North American coast from the fogs of Maine. The adventurous set out from Miami Beach or Tampa and follow the chain of the Bahamas to Puerto Rico, but the great majority fly down from the United States and charter a boat for a couple of weeks. The bare-boat charter business is booming, and St. Mark’s is taking full advantage of the fact.

The most obvious outward sign of this lucrative trend in tourism is the newly built marina at St. Mark’s Harbour, continually abustle with movement along the line of gleaming white hulls and curtseying dinghies. Visiting boats coming in for the night nose tentatively toward the moorings, directed by a gesticulating Harbour Master. New arrivals from New York, pale-faced and anticipatory, clutching duffel bags and crates of provisions, are shown aboard by charter-firm staff. Backward out of her berth comes a lemon yellow sloop with a merry crew on board, preparing to sail to St. Matthew’s Island for dinner at the Anchorage Inn. From seaward, a dark green catamaran roars in, back from a day sail with a load of strictly nonmaritime hotel guests who have been only too happy to concentrate on the refreshments and leave the sailing to the skipper. On other boats, holiday-makers in wisps of bikinis relax on deck, making a striking pattern of bronze, white, and lobster red, depending on the duration and concentration of their suntanning. Bright burgees and ensigns crinkle in the breeze. There is a pervasive and not unpleasant smell of mingled gasoline and coconut oil.

Ashore, a spanking new building complex on the quayside houses a bar and restaurant, showers, a Laundromat, a beauty salon, a gift shop, and a liquor store. The yachtsman’s every need, as the brochures proclaim, is catered to. If any visiting skipper has a grouse, it is because the one thing that the marina lacks is a Customs office. That is situated, as it always has been, on the town quay some two miles away, where fishermen unload their catches onto the old stone jetty, battered fruit boats tie up to sell bananas, mangoes, and sweet grapefruit from Dominica, and big black barges bring in the provisions, furniture, and vehicles that are the lifeblood of the island. The only other Customs and Immigration office is five miles out of town, at the airport.

So yacht skippers must come ashore with their ships’ papers and passports and pile into taxi-jeeps to make the bumpy journey to the town quay to get their clearance. Once in a while, a Customs Officer will come to the marina and do a certain amount of spot-checking on visiting private yachts—but these are holiday-makers, not smugglers. There are smugglers, of course. This is an ancient stamping ground of buccaneers, pirates, contrabandists, and freebooters. However, the excise men have a shrewd idea of the identity of habitual offenders, and a sharp watch is kept. No need to upset the tourists.

Even the much smaller island of St. Matthew’s has been infected by the current sea fever to the point of constructing a small yacht basin not far from the public wharf in the harbor of Priest Town. In many ways it is more convenient than St. Mark’s marina, for the Customs office is on the quayside. On the other hand, it lacks the polish and amenities of St. Mark’s. There are no boats for charter and no waterside facilities—only the old gray stone fish market and the new concrete police station. Visiting sailors wanting to buy provisions or have a meal ashore must walk up one of the narrow cobbled lanes to the main street of Priest Town, and even there the choice is limited and hardly inspired. There is no way of taking on water except by filling your jerrican from a single tap.

The casual traveler might wonder what prompted the elder statesmen of St. Matthew’s to spend a part of the island’s scant revenue on the construction of the marina; the answer is that nothing did. The marina was built and is maintained by the wildly expensive and exclusive St. Matthew’s Golf Club, with the sole purpose of keeping mere mortals in charter boats away from the Club’s private moorings and jetty, where weekend invasions from St. Mark’s had begun to annoy the members. The presumptuous visitors were sent packing, of course, but the Club became acutely aware that its soft underbelly, so to speak, was to seaward. Now, affixed to the outer port and starboard buoys marking the channel to the Golf Club jetty are large notices proclaiming CLUB BOATS ONLY. PRIEST TOWN PUBLIC MARINA 1 MILE, with a red arrow pointing the way. So the members are left in peace and feel they are getting their money’s worth out of the new facility. The citizens of St. Matthew’s are pleased to welcome visiting yachtsmen and so partake of the charter-boat bonanza. Everybody is happy.

At half-past nine on a sparkling morning in January, a small and incongruous figure might have been seen, dodging with quick, birdlike steps, up and down the double line of moored boats in Priest Town marina—a little old lady, thin and very spry, wearing a navy blue cotton skirt reaching almost to her ankles and sensible tennis shoes. Her arms, tanned, skinny, and freckled with deeper brown age spots, emerged from her sleeveless white lace blouse and her big-brimmed straw hat was anchored by a pink chiffon scarf that passed over its crown to tie under the old lady’s chin. Along the swaying wooden jetty she darted and swooped, her small bright eyes peering at the names on the yachts’ transoms. At last, she found what she was looking for.

“Ahoy, there! Isabella, ahoy!” The voice was a cracked treble, thin but penetrating. “Isabella, I say! Ahoy!”

The Isabella was a graceful white ketch, which lay quietly nuzzling the end of the landing stage. She wore the United States ensign, with a British courtesy flag at the shrouds, and flew a yacht club burgee. Her home port was apparently Miami Beach, and a certificate of American registration was stuck to her topsides. She was therefore not an indigenous charter boat, but a visitor from Florida, and the fact that the Harbour Master had not tucked her neatly into a berth suggested that she was making only a short stay in St. Matthew’s. There was no sign of life aboard.

“Isabella, ahoy!” This time, the little old lady emphasized her cry by banging on the side of the boat with her bony fist. Slowly, the cabin door opened from the inside, and a fair-haired, sun-tanned girl with brown eyes and a pretty, pert nose, appeared in the hatchway, wearing a pale blue bikini. In a voice slightly blurred, as if from sleep, she said, “Who is it? What do you want?”

“Janet Vanduren! Janet, my dear!” Beaming, the old lady flung wide her arms in a welcoming, all-embracing gesture. “How good to see you again!” The girl looked at her blankly. In a voice tinged with more disappointment than surprise, the old lady said, “You don’t remember me, do you? Well, why should you? It was quite a while ago. I’m Betsy Sprague, dear. Your mother’s old schoolteacher from England. I stayed at your home in East Beach…oh, six years ago, it must be. Don’t you remember?”

The girl smiled, squinting into the sun. “Why, sure—yes, of course I do, Miss Sprague. I just didn’t expect to see you here.”

“You didn’t? Didn’t Celia write and tell you? The naughty girl—she always was forgetful.”

“We’ve been cruising for several weeks,” the girl said. “If mother did write, I certainly wouldn’t have gotten the letter.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter, does it, now that I’ve found you? Yes, I wrote and told Celia that I was spending a holiday here, and she wrote back saying that you and your fiancé were cruising the Caribbean on your father’s boat, and that you would be in St. Matthew’s today. You see how closely she follows your itinerary, my dear, and a very good thing, too. You never know, do you? And she said I must be sure to look you up while you were here and… ” Miss Betsy Sprague paused for a necessary intake of breath.

The girl said, “It’s great to see you, Miss Sprague, but I’m afraid we’re just off. Ed has gone to check out with Customs and do an errand in town, and as soon as he comes back—”

“Of course, dear. I quite understand. You wouldn’t like to come ashore and have a nice cup of tea while you’re waiting for your young man?”

“It’s kind of you, but really—no. I have to get the boat ready for sea.” The girl hesitated. “I’m sorry I can’t ask you aboard. We’re really not—”

“That’s perfectly all right, dear. I don’t want to inconvenience you in any way. I just promised your mother that I’d try to see you, so that I can send her word that you’re fit and well. And obviously you are. You do keep in touch with your mother, don’t you, dear, when you’re off on a trip like this? She’s bound to be a little anxious, you know.”

“Don’t worry, Miss Sprague. Ed’s at the post office right now, sending a cable to Mom and Dad. We do that at least once a week, so they know we’re O.K. and where we are.”

Miss Sprague beamed. “A very sensible arrangement. After all, the sea is the sea, whatever anybody may say. Well, dear, if you’re leaving so soon, I think I’ll catch the Golf Club helicopter to St. Mark’s—just popping over for some shopping. The Secretary very kindly offered me a seat—his wife is a cousin of one of my girls, you see. So sorry not to meet your fiancé. Celia did tell me his name… ”

“Ed Marsham. He’s a New Yorker.”

“Gracious me. So you’ll be living in New York after you’re married. Think of that. What is it they call it—the Big Banana?”

“The Big Apple.”

“Apple. How curious. One wonders why. Ah, well, I’m sure you’ll enjoy it. I’ll write and tell your mother I saw you just before you sailed off to—Where is it you’re going next?”

“I really don’t know exactly. The American Virgin Islands, I expect, and then the Dominican Republic and around there.”

“Not Cuba, I hope?” Miss Sprague lowered her voice, as if pronouncing an obscenity.

The girl laughed. “No, no. We have to be back in Puerto Rico in two weeks’ time anyway, to pick up our crew.”

“Your crew?”

“A couple from New York—friends of Ed’s. Island-hopping is fine with just the two of us, but we need more hands for the long haul home.”

“But you got down here with just the two of you?”

“No, we had two friends with us, but they flew back to the States for Christmas.”

Miss Betsy Sprague beamed again. “I can see you are a really sensible girl,” she said, “with a sensible young man into the bargain. I shall write and tell Celia that you are well and happy and in fine fettle.” She looked at her watch. “My goodness, I must go if I’m not to keep the helicopter waiting. Good sailing, my dear. My regards to your Edward.”

Hurrying up the floating jetty, Miss Sprague nearly cannoned into a tall, fair young man carrying a paper bag from which the necks of a couple of bottles protruded. He wore minuscule blue shorts and a T-shirt with the initials E.M. printed on it. She grabbed his free hand.

“E.M. Why, you must be Ed! So nice to meet you, dear! Good sailing! Good-bye!” Leaving the young man, whose name was Ernest Mulliner, in a state of some bewilderment, Miss Sprague tripped away toward the quayside and the taxi stand.

Half an hour later, gazing down from the tiny red helicopter that was flying her across the narrow strip of dark blue water to St. Mark’s, Miss Sprague saw a white ketch hoisting sail as she moved out of Priest Town Harbour. At the wheel was a slim, bronzed figure in a pale blue bikini. Miss Sprague waved energetically and was answered by a wave from the girl at the wheel. Then the helicopter changed course and the yacht disappeared from sight, as Miss Sprague settled back into her seat and began quizzing the Secretary of the Golf Club as to the best shops on St. Mark’s.

And that was the last that was ever seen of the auxiliary sailing ketch Isabella.

The loss of the Isabella did not exactly make headlines. Toward the end of January, the East Beach Courier ran a small paragraph, as the story was of local interest. YACHT OVERDUE. FEAR FOR DOCTOR’S DAUGHTER was the headline. A week later, the paper reported that the Coast Guard search had now been abandoned, and expressed condolences to Dr. and Mrs. Lionel Vanduren of Harbour Drive, East Beach, whose daughter, Janet, must now be presumed drowned, along with her fiancé, Mr. Ed Marsham of New York City. The yacht Isabella, the Courier noted, had been on a Caribbean cruise, crewed by Miss Vanduren, Mr. Marsham, and Mr. and Mrs. Peter Jessel of Norfolk, Virginia. Luckily for them, the Jessels had left the boat at San Juan, Puerto Rico, before Christmas. The Isabella then visited various islands, having last been reported in St. Matthew’s, British Seaward Islands. The alarm was raised when she did not return to San Juan to pick up Mr. and Mrs. William Harman of New York City, who had flown down to help sail the vessel home to Florida. The presumption was that she had run into a sudden tropical storm or suffered a fire at sea. Just another small, commonplace tragedy. However, the Miami Herald picked it up and gave it a couple of lines.

The London Sunday Scoop would certainly never have mentioned the matter at all had it not been for the fact that it had recently been so desperate for feature material as to concoct a rehash of the already well-worn Bermuda Triangle story, which it was running on two consecutive Sundays. A sharp-eyed junior editor in Features spotted the paragraph in the Miami Herald, and it was decided to run it on page 3 under the headline ANOTHER BERMUDA TRIANGLE VICTIM? MYSTERY OF VANISHED YACHT. The missing pair were described as Miss Jane Vanbarten and Mr. Edward Marshall, and the boat was called the motor cruiser Isobel, but otherwise the story was reasonably accurate as far as it went. The main point of it, of course, was to direct the reader’s attention to the second part of the Scoop’s analysis of the GREAT BERMUDA TRIANGLE COVER-UP (SEE PAGE 25).

Emmy Tibbett, sprawled luxuriously in bed at ten o’clock on Sunday morning with a cup of tea, a boiled egg, and the Scoop, noticed the item and remarked on it to her husband, Chief Superintendent Henry Tibbett of the C.I.D., who was shaving in the adjoining bathroom.

“Listen, Henry. Here’s something about St. Matthew’s.”

Henry pulled his face sideways with his left hand and made a razor stroke through the foaming lather. He said, “St. Matthew’s? The church?”

“No, idiot. The island. Where we shall be in June, if you remember.”

“Oh, St. Matthew’s,” said Henry, enlightened. “What about it?”

“Another boat gone missing in the Bermuda Triangle,” said Emmy. “A private motorboat with two people on board. Just vanished.” She paused. “Did you read last week’s article?”

“No, I did not.”

“Well, I did, and you must admit there’s something extremely odd going on.”

Henry turned from the bathroom mirror and came to stand in the doorway of the bedroom, his face still half-covered in white suds. He said, “For a start, it’s all nonsense, and to go on with, what has St. Matthew’s got to do with it? The Seawards are nowhere near the Bermuda Triangle.”

“Well, they’re not all that far away.” Emmy was on the defensive. “I mean, Puerto Rico is sort of on the edge of it. Look, there’s a map here. You can see.”

“Puerto Rico is a pretty long way from St. Matthew’s.”

“Of course it is. They only mention St. Matthew’s because that was the last place the boat called before she disappeared. She was going back to San Juan to pick up some crew, so she might easily have been in the Triangle when she vanished.”

“It’s people like you,” said Henry, “who keep these preposterous stories going. Don’t you see the whole thing’s just a gimmick to sell books and newspapers?”

Emmy grinned. “I suppose I do, really,” she said, “but I never can resist a mystery—and there are millions of people like me.”

“I get all the mysteries I need during working hours,” said Henry. “I can do without them when I’m on leave, thank you.”

He returned to his shaving, putting in some fancy work on his upper lip. He regarded himself critically in the mirror—sandy hair, blue eyes, generally undistinguished. A useful anonymity for a senior police officer. He said, “Did you talk to the travel agency about Early Bird flights?”

“I did. I’m making the actual bookings next week. I can’t wait to get back to the Caribbean again. I wish we could go now and get away from all this muck.” Emmy gestured at the steady stream of February rain coursing down the windowpanes of the ugly Victorian house, whose ground floor was the Tibbetts’ Chelsea home.

“You couldn’t expect the Colvilles to put us up for nothing in the high season,” Henry said. “And John’s getting us a pretty special price on the boat, too. I’ve always wanted to sail those waters.”

“Are there sharks?” Emmy asked suddenly.

“Of course there are. You know that. But they only come inshore at night, to feed. That’s why John and Margaret warned us last time against swimming after dark.”

“I wonder… I wonder if that’s what happened to those wretched people on that boat. I mean, if that’s why the bodies were never recovered.” Emmy shivered.

“Highly unlikely,” said Henry.

“Well, what do you think happened to them? The Coast Guard hasn’t found any wreckage, either.”

“Then I expect it was a fire,” Henry said.

“Someone would have seen it.”

“Depends where they were. If they were well out to sea—”

“It says here they were cruising the islands. They wouldn’t have been so far from land that—”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” said Henry. “All you know about it is one small and probably inaccurate newspaper paragraph. Get up and have your bath, and we’ll go and get a beer somewhere.”